


Forgetting Phryne

by meggles830



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Fling - Freeform, Past Relationship(s), Sexy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-31
Updated: 2015-07-31
Packaged: 2018-04-12 05:55:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4467908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meggles830/pseuds/meggles830
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A few weeks after everything goes down in Unnatural Habits (2 x12), Jack goes to visit Phryne and try to deal with his feelings, but she is visiting with the entertaining Mr. Lin when he arrives... leading him into the arms (finally) of one Italian Widow of his acquaintance. Obviously its total fluff and probably never happened, but it was fun to put on paper and try to explore Jack without Phryne for a minute. May turn this into a multi-chapter piece. PLEASE leave comments, this is my first time writing like this and I'd love feedback.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Forgetting Phryne

No, considering how livid and terrified he remained about her reckless and foolish actions earlier that evening, action which had necessitated his rescuing her, Miss Williams and those cab drivers of dubious repute that she regularly employed and allowed to loaf about her home for some unfathomable reason. Was it not enough that his former father-in-law and the fiancee (and cousin) of his ex-wife had been the masterminds behind this particularly odious and tragic crime scheme, but that she… Phryne (as he only dared to call her in his own mind) had been brought so near to death. Abducted by ruffians, bound and gagged with plans to throw her in that state into the roiling ocean… only to escape and have a rather heavy and ominous looking revolver pointed at her exactly as he arrived upon the scene-- just in time to see the most terrifying sight of his life.

As terrified as he had been when Foyle had her-- when she had drunk of the elixir that would have so easily allowed for her life to be snuffed out from this world, leaving it a dull, harsh and lonely place, he had not actually at the time thought anyone had the power to remove her from his life-- could even God stand up to Miss Fisher’s stubborn and powerful dominance? He would never forget the ashen and almost lifeless qualities to her skin, her posture, her shallow breaths and place upon that altar-- he had never imagined there could be a more terrifying or horrible feeling-- one year later he still lost sleep on a regular basis as he relived it in his subconscious. Then, only months earlier, he had received the call, he believed at the time, had announced the horrific death of Miss Fisher, due to her own overly eager and careless driving habits. He had steeled himself for the absolute worse, envisioning her porcelain skin spattered with bruising and blood from the windows, the steering wheel, the dash… but upon seeing it was not her with her skull caved in on the steering wheel of the late model black roadster… he was not sure which was worse: the idea that she may be dead and lost to him forever, or the idea that it was only a matter of time before she was eventually ripped from him in some horrible way. But no matter how terrible any of these events had been, no matter the number of years they had stolen from his potential lifespan from fear, anxiety and even the sleepless nights in which he wrestled with the roots of his fears and anxiety and came to terms with his feelings for Miss Fisher… No horrific vision could truly compare to the sight of that man, the beloved family member of his former father-in-law and wife, holding a gun to the head of the woman whose life meant more to him than his own.

He knew war. He had experienced the feelings of “kill or be killed”. He had chosen, more than once or twice in his life, to kill a man. In France he had shot men who were planning to kill him, or men who were specifically marked by uniform, location and actions, as enemies against the country and against freedom. He had once or twice even been forced to shoot men who had planned to take the lives of those from whom they had stolen or in some other way harmed. But never before had he been pushed to act in such irrevocable ways on behalf of someone else-- someone who’s life meant infinitely more than his own, someone without whom the world held very little appeal. But as he viewed Phryne bound and gagged on that ship, at the mercy of those men, it was not even worth pausing, it took no consideration at all and he’d never been so confident in any action in his life. And then Rosie had arrived. Years ago he had stood before God and his family and friends and declared his unwavering love and loyalty to her. She had been a young woman, knew very little about the world, and he had been a talented and ambitious rookie police officer who had caught the eye of his superior, and in time, his beautiful daughter. Only two years later he was on the front in France, fighting against the Hun, in trenches, seeing friends-- brothers, fall to violent ends or, worse, survive mustard gas, years of shelling and shell shock, amputations and other life long diseases that would leave them hollow remnants of the men (or boys) who had gone off to war. While his time overseas had been less eventful than many men, he had seen things-- done things-- felt things that he would never truly overcome.

Once you have seen the worst men are capable of, the needless killing and the starvation and the raping and plundering of small, innocent towns, the shelling and fires that abound about small cities and farms… how could one try to return to the life they had lived before? Once you had jumped from planes to land behind enemy lines or felt a bayonet grate against the ribs of a 16 year old boy to avoid the blade yourself.... the idea of a house in town, dance and garden parties, a brood of small children and dogs running about underfoot as you garden and mow the lawn-- those things were unreachable, unbearable even to think about at times. Over time he had managed to deal with many of the memories that distanced him from anyone who had not been there, from anyone who didn’t know what he had seen and felt. Over time he had come to find a degree of satisfaction and happiness with his life and his work, with his friends… with Concetta.

He had not expected Concetta. It had been after midnight when he had been called to the scene of the murder of her husband. Even then, distraught upon finding her husband of five years dead-- brutally struck down in a clear mob-style hit, she displayed a certain stoicism, a strength that radiated from within. There had been tears in her eyes, but a resilience. She was upset, but would survive this-- he had seen it with nurses and ambulance drivers on the Front. He had seen it in the face of family members who had lost sons or husbands or brothers. She may have been 24, but she was an older soul-- no delicate flower. not a woman who would wilt at being with a man who had a past, who still occasionally woke in the middle of the night calling out the name of a soldier in his battalion who had died in his arms or from the memory of his first crime scene involving the rape and strangulation of a young girl. She was real… tangible… but still soft and warm and lovely. It would have been easy to fall in love with her, so easy.

But Jack was not free-- and Jack was nothing but a man of his word, and he had sworn to God and Rosie in front of all those witnesses that he would love her, and only her, until death parted them. No matter she had recently moved back to her father’s home in the much posher section of Melbourne. No matter that stories were spreading about the town in rotation that she had begun an affair with some local councilman or bank manager or footie player. It was difficult to blame her-- poor woman had always been so gay when they had met that summer at the Policeman’s Ball. They had been happy for the six months they’d truly had together before the war. But she had been raised in a large home with many servants, parties, finishing schools, unlimited affection-- even if adjusting to the wife of lowly police officer with limited ambition to rise in the ranks had been possible, she had most certainly not signed on as the wife of a depressed shell of a man, unable or unwilling to regain his pre-war interest in life. No, he didn’t blame Rosie-- he was unable to be the man she had sworn herself to that Spring day so long ago. So Concetta had been perfect in the beginning-- she was an Italian widow with family ties to the Camorra and a Catholic conscience that meant for, the time at least, there was no danger of their friendship being anything more than the occasional glance or whisper or hand on the shoulder. And then, when Phryne had crashed into his life and Rosie had formally petitioned for divorce, he had found himself turning more and more to Concetta-- the quiet strength and comfort she had been able to give him-- never pushing, never asking, never needing anything. She understood that he was not free, not truly, and was not ever going to push him to give something he was incapable of giving. She would insinuate, she would proffer… but it was clear that it was up to him to do anything.

And then one night, after Miss Fisher had spent the night in the arms of that silk importer again… he had imagined Mr. Lin was out of their lives, but it wasn’t true. He had dealt with the Italian, the dance master, the boxer… dammit, the aboriginal even, (never let it be said that her tastes were anything but egalitarian he supposed). But somehow he had believed there was… something. What? He berated himself in his car as he drove away from her home where the lights had been dimmed and the candles at the table snuffed out as they had, he was sure, moved onto other entertainments. Without thinking he drove to Concetta’s family restaurant. She was only now clearing up from dinner with her father-- he was closing out the books for the night while she swept the floor around the bar area as he knocked lightly on the door.

“Gianni. Gianni, what are you doing here?” He looked past her, into the restaurant where her father was still hunched over his books-- he had looked up to wave and then immediately back to his books-- it was Gianni, as a father, some days he almost thought the best thing that could happen to his daughter at the moment, she was still a bit too serious and closed off to be a tempting marriage proposition yet.

“Gianni, would you like to come in and have a glass…” She was interrupted as he pulled her outside, under the unlit awning of the restaurant, into the shadows and he pulled her to him. His hand twined through her hair while the other moved down her face, her body, his lips on hers, his tongue searching her mouth. And with relief and joy he felt her return his desire, his passion. She pulled away,

“Gianni, what happened?”

“You. You happened. You have so consistently happened to me-- for months I’ve been avoiding the sunshine you have brought to my life. You have brought me a happiness and a security and comfort. I’m tired of denying it. I am tired of pretending that it is not true or that…” Her finger on his lips silenced him.

“Five minutes. Please, can you wait five minutes?” That look of in her eyes, her flushed cheeks, her breathless smile. He couldn’t help it, he smiled, he laughed,

“Five minutes?”

“Si, five minutes, that is all I need.” She disappeared inside, called something to her father about a band at the nearby dance club, she ran upstairs to the family apartments and before he could truly rethink any of his actions or thoughts in the last twenty minutes, she had returned-- hair pulled up, a red dancing dress on and a small handbag at her side. She smelled of vanilla and jasmine and had a bright look of anticipation as she pulled him by the hand towards his car.

“Your casa, your house… take me there, please.” He had not questioned anything in the last two hours-- it had only been folly that had taken him to Miss Fisher’s house in the first place, and he was not going to entertain the motives that had brought him here now, if he pulled at any of these threads, he’d go mad. Maybe it was time to see what a “modern relationship was about”. As soon as they opened the door to his small bungalow her mouth was on his, his hands were on her face, her shoulders, her obviously well-formed and abundant breasts. She was pulling at his tie, his jacket and shirt while he attempted to guide her the short way down the hall to his bedroom. By the time they got there his shirt hung from the waist of his trousers and her dress had been discarded along the way, she was standing in her slip and camisole, the straps of the fine black silk had fallen off her shoulders, showing the promise of her expansive breasts-- breasts that were far too full and round to be fashionable in today’s almost androgynous fashions. Sometimes you just had to thank god for a more old fashioned woman.

As they reached the bed, he tried to slow things down a bit.

“Concetta, darling, we don’t need to hurry so.”

“What’s the matter, Gianni, are you worried? Please don’t be. I’m a widow, this is hardly a sin, you needn’t worry so for my honor.”

“Its not that, Concetta, its merely…”

“Per favore non preoccuparti. Non e necessario, I have taken… precautions.” She looked at him, meaningly.

“Ah. Of course. Well, very smart of course. And…” That was the end of the conversation as she reminded him there were infinitely better things to be doing with their mouths than chatting. There were really only moans and deep grunts for a time, as his trousers were no longer properly buckled at his waist and there was a decidedly moist warmth currently encircling his incredibly hard cock-- a part of his anatomy that had not known the touch of anything but his own hand in far too long for him to be capable of thinking of anything else when… “My darling.” He pulled her away, almost excruciatingly, “please, join me, up here. Please.” He pulled her up to him,

“You didn’t like?”

“Oh, my darling, it was not that at all. I just find that…” Was there a gentlemanly way to say that it had been so long since any woman had touched him so intimately that he was a bit concerned about “spending his wad”, if one were to speak like a vulgar sailor? “I’ve thought about this many times, _mia dolcezza_ , I would like to take my time, to enjoy the journey.” That seemed right, that was considerate and flattering, no? He pulled her to him, kissing her, exploring her mouth, his urgency still a bit stronger than he would really like for this woman. He held her arms above her head as she continued to reach for him, right then, there was nothing else to do than distract her as completely as he knew how. He began to kiss his way down her body-- stopping to circle her nipples, delightfully hard, with his tongue, flicking against her breasts and their rosy nub before continuing down her belly to her thighs, grazing along the inside of her legs, feeling her olive skin shivering against his velvety tongue-- seeing her thrusting her hips towards him, her black curls between her legs were quivering, and he could smell and taste the salty wetness between her thighs… the pleasant, warm brine that was so fresh and clean and… sexy. He felt her bucking towards him, he found that velvety mound that had her moaning, low at first but as his tongue ended its teasing and began a more forward, direct assault-- suckling that beautiful and tiny button of womanhood , his tongue running against the folds of her and then the occasional, ever so soft, use of his teeth against the area he was so ready to worship at for the rest of his life.

She began to change pitch, calling his name out, low but loud, her breath quickening, her legs and body trembling… she came against him as she thrust against his mouth, shuddering and then absolute stillness as he abated his assault, but did not remove his mouth from her. Not until she began to move again, wiggling against him, trying to move her hips down, underneath him, ready to feel that stiffness against her swollen (and particularly sensitive) folds, not at all content with the one-sided nature of the activities, or so it would seem. As she moved beneath him, she grabbed his thick shaft in her hand, stroking it lovingly as she gently guided it with inside her. Jack couldn’t think of how long it had been since he had felt this-- this overwhelming pleasure and the surprising dampness and warmth he felt… the excitement and eagerness with which she wrapped a leg around his waist, trying with all of her might to contract around his member and he could feel the pulsating against his cock, the tightening about him. Even in the earliest and most amorous days of his marriage, it had never been like this-- perhaps there was something about the heat of the Mediterranean and its effects on women. He could hear her panting and moaning as he began to feel his climax culminating. Her enthusiasm falling into step with the rhythms they were creating together,her nails digging into his back, his neck, his thighs only served to spur him on, getting him closer, closer… he spasmed against her, thrusting harder than ever while she groaned

“Si Gianni, si, por favor, Gianni!” He felt himself come against her, collapsing onto her body-- he felt… elated? Besotted? No, he was content-- he did not feel better nor worse, but he was very content, right here, in this bed, with this woman who reminded him of a bronzed statue of a Roman Goddess. As he began to drift off to sleep he did not feel guilty or ashamed… was this how Miss Fisher was feeling right now? Was this what it meant to be in a modern relationship? He had not compromised anyone-- Concetta was neither married nor a virgin, and so long as she was being truthful and diligent with whatever method of “family planning” she had employed, there was not likely to be any lasting consequence from tonight’s activities. Nor did it seem likely they were about to succumb to such intense feelings that they would behave in irrational or impractical ways and overly complicate things. No, in Concetta’s arms, he could be himself. Inspector Jack Robinson could seek solace in her arms and her bed and comfort him against the world within which he struggled daily against evil and the worst machinations of men. In her arms he could take and he could give and he could block out all other things and any other women who clouded his judgement, his thinking or his behaviors-- here he was not at the mercy of any woman. No matter how stunning her high cheekbones, delicate body or astounding intelligence affected him otherwise, he was able to be precisely as modern as he felt capable-- although, as he drifted off to sleep he would be damned to admit that any male member of the Chinese people, silk importers or kung fu experts had a single redeeming quality.


End file.
